


The Navigation of Wagons

by hoc_voluerunt



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Gen, Past Abuse, Physical Abuse, Verbal Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-07
Updated: 2013-03-07
Packaged: 2017-12-04 14:56:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/712004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hoc_voluerunt/pseuds/hoc_voluerunt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Douglas' divorce papers are finalised, Martin learns exactly why his First Officer stopped drinking: he’s an angry, violent drunk with a tendency to hurt the people he loves; and he hates himself for it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Navigation of Wagons

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted [to my LJ](http://hoc-voluerunt.livejournal.com/33760.html#cutid1) in February 2012.

            It was rare enough for Martin to receive visitors at all; a lethargic knock on the attic door at two o’clock in the morning was unprecedented.

            Figuring that it must be one of the students with a problem (and hoping they hadn’t bred some awful carnivorous plant again), Martin crawled reluctantly out from under his blankets, leaving the warmth of his small bed for cold floorboards and the heavy, insistent knocking.

            “All right, all right, I’m coming,” he mumbled as he crossed the small room on uncooperative feet. He switched on the light, and opened the door to find First Officer Douglas Richardson leaning against the frame. He reeked of alcohol and was swaying slightly on his feet, as if he were on the verge of toppling over, and squinted against the light now flooding into the hall. Martin frowned.

             _“…Douglas?”_

            “Oh, well spotted,” he drawled, his voice thick and a little bit slurred, but definitely not lacking in condescension. If anything, he sounded even more superior than usual.

            Without asking for permission, Douglas pushed his way past Martin, shoving him out of the way and turning to collapse on the little sofa by the door. Martin bristled at the treatment, not used to the verbal assaults extending to the physical, but tried to stay calm – Douglas was obviously not himself. Closing the door, Martin frowned down at Douglas’ despondent form. He was holding his head in his hands, and looked smaller than Martin had ever expected to see him. He was wearing an old, too-tight Air England jacket with Captain’s epaulets.

            “Douglas,” he started carefully, “are you –”

            “Divorce papers went through this afternoon,” Douglas blurted from behind his hands. “Helena’s gone for good.”

            Martin’s face fell, though Douglas couldn’t see it. “Oh –  _Douglas,_ I’m – I’m so sorry…”

            Douglas snorted. “Don’t give me your  _pity,_ Martin,” he spat at the floor. “You’d be best off sparing every last drop for yourself, you’re definitely going to need it.”

            Martin reeled at the attack. He hadn’t even  _done_ anything! “In case you haven’t noticed,” he scoffed, “I’m being very generous right now! I could throw you right out if –”

             _“Please.”_ The corner of Douglas’ mouth curled nastily as he looked up at Martin, mocking and patronising and cruel. “As if you could throw me anywhere, you pathetic piece of shit.”

            Martin gaped. “You – you can’t say things like that!” he cried, hating the waver in his voice. “Douglas, what’s wrong with you?”

            “What’s  _wrong_  with me?” Douglas slurred back, his lip curling and his nose wrinkling as he staggered to his feet. “What’s  _wrong?_ I’m stuck as _First Officer_ in some penniless charter company, flying a plane that’s already falling to pieces, next to a skinny, stupid little man who plays at being the Captain when he’s barely good enough to replace the idiot  _steward!”_ Spittle flew, and the whisky on his breath was nauseating; Martin took two steps back, caught somewhere between horror, disgust and wrenching hurt. “Helena’s left me for a fucking  _Tai Chi_  teacher, my life is going  _nowhere_  – and the only person I have to come to is  _you!”_

            Martin frowned, turning instantly defensive. “What’s wrong with  _me?”_  he yelled back, mustering as much invective as he could find at two in the morning, being drunkenly insulted by someone he’d thought he’d considered a friend. “I’m not the one showing up at his  _superior officer’s_ door at two in the morning, blind drunk, wearing a uniform that hasn’t fit in –”

             _SMACK._

            Douglas had a lot of strength for someone who could barely stand up straight. The flat of his palm connected squarely with Martin’s cheek, sending him stumbling sideways into the door to the little bathroom. Grabbing Martin’s wrist in a grip like a meaty vice, Douglas dragged him up again, looming over him, close enough that Martin could make out the sweat on his brow and was almost overpowered by his stinking breath.

            “Now you listen to me.” Douglas’ voice had taken on a dangerous, snarling edge that Martin had only heard a few times. Ordinarily, he’d have been anxious, worried at most – now, he was downright terrified.

            “Douglas –” he started, but Douglas shook him by the wrist, tightening his already-painful grip.

            “We both know I’m the better pilot,” he snarled as Martin prised uselessly at the fingers wrapped around his bony wrist.  “You? You’re  _nothing._ You’re a stupid, pathetic, lonely little man who can’t even get a  _date,_ let alone a wife to leave him. You can’t even  _fly_  properly, the only reason Carolyn keeps you is because you’re cheap, and she knows that  _I_  can get us out of whatever trouble you manage to land us in. She doesn’t even  _pay_ you! You’re worse than a fucking  _whore_  – a whore of a pilot, and you god damn well  _enjoy it,_ don’t you?”

            Martin stared. Above him, Douglas’ face was a twisted, unrecognisable mess of fury and hate. He wasn’t shouting, just growling in that low, awful voice he used when Martin hurt his pride enough to make him want to fight back. The hand on Martin’s wrist was squeezing hard enough to bruise, though it felt more like he was about to snap. Martin felt more and more helpless as he fought back a whimper and gripped his own, thin fingers in Douglas’ sleeve, tugging at his arm in a futile attempt to free himself.

            “Douglas, please –” he begged, his voice cracking.

             _“Don’t you!”_  Douglas snapped, tugging on Martin’s arm and causing him to cry out as the pain flared up his arm

            “Yes, yes, fine!” Martin stammered, tears beginning to leak from the corners of his eyes. “Whatever you say, yes, you’re right, you’re right, now please –”

            The acquiescence was all Douglas needed. With a casual flick of his arm, he tossed Martin aside, throwing him into the wall where he stumbled and fell into the corner, sliding down the wall and hitting the floor hard. Douglas turned away to fumble with the light switch, and Martin found he couldn’t look at him, holding his left arm away from his body and staring at his knees.

            “I’m sleeping here,” Douglas grumbled as he found the switch, plunging them into darkness. His heavy footsteps crossed the room. “Don’t you dare wake me up.”

            The mattress creaked, and Douglas’ shoes clattered to the floor. Martin heard him roll onto his side and draw the blanket over his shoulder; within seconds, he was snoring soundly.

            Martin’s knees were weak, and he didn’t trust himself to try to stand. He knew Douglas could be mean, but it was usually innocent enough, and he’d never lashed out like this, violent and cruel and unprovoked. His insults had been rambling and blunt – not the eloquent, backhanded sarcasm and languid jabs Martin was used to.

            And he was supposed to be sober.  _‘Eight years for me,’_ he’d said; apparently the business with Helena had been worse than anyone had anticipated.

            Hesitating for no reason at all (and hating himself for that alone), Martin drew his injured arm into his chest and cradled his wrist, trying to keep his sobs as quiet as possible.

 

            Douglas slept through the dawn, a feat which Martin usually found difficult, due to the curtainless window over the bed. By the time nine o’clock came around, though, the sun was shining directly onto the pillow, and not even a hungover (or possibly still drunk) Douglas Richardson could sleep through that. He groaned and buried his face in the pillow, groping blindly about with one hand until it came in contact with the sloped ceiling. Across the room, Martin watched him, leaning against the counter opposite and shivering. He hadn’t changed out of his pyjamas yet, not daring to approach the chest of drawers at the end of the bed.

            Douglas groaned again, struggling to sit up. “What…?”

            Sighing, Martin dropped two alka-seltzers in a glass of water and strode across the room, setting it on the nearest edge of the bedside table and retreating again to the end of the counter. Douglas belatedly glanced over, seeing first the glass, then the flat, then Martin, arms crossed tight over his chest, standing as far away from Douglas as he could get without actually huddling in the far corner.

             _“… Martin?”_

            “Morning, Douglas.”

            “How…?”

            “You showed up at about two,” Martin explained, not looking at him. “You pushed your way in, insulted me and took over my bed.”

            Douglas closed his eyes and expelled a disappointed, horrified breath. He turned on the bed, sitting up and planting his stockinged feet on the floor. He took one look at his sleeves and made a noise of disgust in his throat, wrestling his way out of his jacket with as much irritation as a man with his first hangover in eight years could manage. Having thrown the offensive item of clothing to the end of the bed, he rested his forehead in his hands and let his eyes fall shut.

            “Drink,” Martin ordered from across the room. “I’d offer you a greasy breakfast or something, but I don’t have one.”

            “You know that doesn’t actually help,” said Douglas, regaining a hint of his usual pomposity. Martin shrugged, looking at the floor.

            “Helps me.”

            He expected a jab about his social life, about not having the time or money to go out, let alone get roaring, head-splittingly drunk – but Douglas said nothing, leaving them in a thick, heavy silence. The only movements in the room were Martin’s occasional shudders and Douglas raising his head enough to hold his temples between his palms and stare at the slowly fizzing water beside him. When he spoke, it felt sudden, though his voice was flat and dismayed.

            “Did I hurt you?”

            Martin’s gaze whipped up just long enough for Douglas to notice before returning to the floor. “What do you mean?” he asked nervously.

            Douglas’ eyes closed again, and he turned his face away, pressing his lips together. “Don’t,” he said, breathing slow and deep through his nose. “I know what I am when I’m drunk,” he continued in the same, unemotional voice. “I know what I’m – prone to do. There’s a reason I had to stop.”

            Martin looked up at the side of Douglas’ face, fearful and hesitant, though he didn’t know why. “I –” he tried to say, but nothing else came out.

            “You can tell me, Martin,” said Douglas calmly, watching the last of the bubbles fizz away in the glass. “It’s better if I know.”

            Sighing, Martin, looked back down at the bare floorboards, tightening his arms across his chest and immediately regretting it as the bruises on his wrist twinged. “You –” He swallowed. “You hit me. Um. Slapped me, really, in – in the face.”

            Douglas’ eyes fell shut again in disappointment and remorse. “What else?”

            Martin shivered again, unsure now if it was because of the cold or the heaviness in his First Officer’s shoulders and the way he’d merely assumed that there was more. “You held me by the wrist,” he continued, missing ‘clinical and detached’ by a wide margin. “It – badly. It’s – kind of – bruised. And – and you sort of – th-threw me around a bit. Not a lot, but –” He took a deep breath and carefully controlled the quivering exhale. “That’s it.”

            “No it’s not,” said Douglas, still addressing the glass on the table.

            Martin baulked. “What?”

            “That’s not it,” Douglas repeated, vacant and matter-of-fact. “What did I  _say_ to you?”

            “Oh, just – the usual stuff.” Martin tried to laugh, but it fell wretchedly flat. He sighed. “You, um – called me a – a – pathetic piece of shit –” He rushed over Douglas’ words from before, trying to get them said with as little pain as possible for both of them. “Um, you – s-said I couldn’t get a date, which is – which is true, I mean, obviously, but you said it like –” He didn’t quite know how to finish the sentence, so moved on to the next, more subdued than before. “You said I was a bad pilot; that Carolyn only keeps me on because – well.”

            Neither man spoke for a moment as the implication of Martin’s words sank in. Finally, Douglas asked, “Is that it?” in a quiet, despondent voice that implied he doubted it was.

            “Not quite,” Martin replied. He didn’t elaborate.

            Still not looking at him, Douglas’ voice dropped. “Please, Martin,” he implored dully. “I have to know. I have to know what I did.”

            Martin took a deep, shaking breath. “You – you were very insistent about my patheticness,” he blurted, “and, and you called me a –” He breathed again, resolution and resignation eking into his system. “You called me a whore of a pilot.” Again, he tried to laugh through it and failed miserably, swallowing his incipient tears.

            Douglas nodded, taking in the information, accepting it, and building a map of conclusions around it. “You know I don’t mean a word of it,” he said. Martin snorted.

            “Well, my mum always used to say, alcohol’s the best truth serum,” he said with a weak, self-deprecating smile.

            “Martin,  _no,”_ said Douglas severely, finally looking over at him. “This isn’t funny. And your mother was wrong. I don’t mean any of the things I said to you. Yes, sometimes you can be wildly pathetic, and you’ve got the worst luck of anyone I’ve ever met, but that does  _not_  make you any less of a person, nor does it mean you deserve the treatment I gave you.” His tone was firm and practiced, as if he’d had to make this speech more than once. With another breath, his face softened somewhat. “And you’re a good pilot,” he added with stern-faced kindness. “Or you can be.”

            The smallest, slowest of smiles crept onto Martin’s face, and he glanced away. “Apology accepted.”

            Douglas heaved a sigh of relief and reached for the glass on the bedside table, draining half the contents in two gulps

            “This – might seem like an odd request,” he said cautiously – “but can I see where I hurt you?” He looked up, catching Martin’s eye. “I’ve found it helps, to remind me. Having that evidence there.”

            For a moment, Martin considered it – considered crossing the room and standing in front of Douglas and showing him the ugly bruising around his wrist and the sore, red patch on his cheek; then he remembered Douglas looming over him and growling and tossing him aside like a rag doll – like a charter plane in a hurricane – and his train of thought came skidding and screeching to a halt. The hesitation must have shown on his face, because Douglas caught it immediately, his own face falling in horror and humiliation. With shaking hands, he set the glass back on the table and covered his face as his breath began to come thick and fast, his shoulders heaving. He looked on the edge of tears.

            “No – no Douglas, please,” Martin stammered. “It’s not – it’s not that bad, I just – I can’t –”

            “You can’t trust me anymore,” Douglas finished for him, hollow and wretched and distraught. “You can’t come near me, you can’t even  _look_  at me, because now you know what I’m capable of, you can’t possibly trust me again.”

            “No, no that’s not it, Douglas –”

             _“Don’t_ try to fool me, Martin,” Douglas almost snarled, his fingers clenching in his hair. “You’re bad at it anyway, and I’ve been through this more than enough times to know what’s going on.”

            “No –” Taking a fortifying breath, Martin pushed off from the counter and approached the bed on bare, determined feet. He sat next to Douglas, knees pointed toward him, and twisted around to show him his left cheek. “There,” he said. “That’s where you hit me. It’s a bit sore now, but I don’t think you hurt me all that much. It was the shock of it more than anything else, really, that got me.” His voice was shaking, but he ploughed on nonetheless. “I think I might have a bruise or two on my shoulder from when you threw me into the wall.” He paused to breathe, glancing down at the wrist held gingerly in his lap. In a flurry of resolution, he pulled back the left sleeve of his pyjamas and stuck out his hand, holding his wrist out for Douglas to inspect. It was circled with a blotchy patchwork of bruises, purple and yellow and red.

The First Officer stared for a long moment, appalled and grateful and angry with himself, before glancing up at Martin’s face for permission. He nodded his consent, and held his arm out a little further. With shaking hands, Douglas took Martin’s in his own and tugged gently, pulling it further into the light streaming through the window. He pressed sweaty, cautious fingers under his arm to support it, and slowly turned his wrist this way and that, taking in the extent of the damage.

            “It – it hurts quite a bit,” Martin admitted. “I had to cancel a moving job this morning, I don’t think I’ll be able to do much lifting today, but it – it doesn’t feel like anything’s broken or anything. I should be okay.”

            “Should be okay…” Douglas echoed in an absent murmur, still staring at the bruises he’d inflicted. He swallowed, not relinquishing Martin’s arm quite yet. “Thank you, Martin,” he said quietly. Martin nodded and drew back his arm.

            They sat there for a while, Douglas finishing off the water while Martin just stared across the little room at the bare, clean countertop opposite, unconsciously cradling his injured wrist in his right hand.

            “I’m sorry about Helena,” he said eventually, not looking at Douglas and doing his best to keep his voice level and sympathetic.

            “Well, there’s nothing to be done now,” Douglas sighed, swilling around the dregs at the bottom of his glass. In a more humble tone, he added, “Apparently there hasn’t been for a while.”

            Martin had never heard him sound so mournful. He looked over, half-afraid of seeing the emotion in his face, but Douglas didn’t looked distraught – just sad and resigned. Martin cleared his throat.

            “Well, if it’s any consolation,” he said, deliberately casual, “we all think you’re terrific too. And we’re not going to change our minds for a Tai Chi instructor.”

            Douglas raised a sardonic eyebrow at him.  _“Really?”_ he asked, almost making it to his usual drawl. “You think I’m  _terrific?_  Not just a conceited, alcoholic arsehole?”

            Martin failed to repress his smirk. “Well, no,” he admitted – “you  _are_ conceited. And arrogant, and sarcastic, and rude, and just downright mean sometimes – but you’re an  _ex-_ alcoholic. And you may be an arsehole, but you’re a pretty terrific one anyway.”

            Douglas smiled just slightly, and Martin snickered in triumph – and then suddenly they were both laughing, Douglas’ languid chuckle quickly devolving into a groan. He keeled over sideways onto the pillow, fumbling with the glass in his hand before getting it upright on the bedside table. Martin just laughed all the louder, causing Douglas to curl up a little and wrap Martin’s pillow around his ears.

            “Oh God,” he moaned into the mattress, “I already miss being sober.”

            “Well I’m pretty sure that’s a good start,” Martin laughed.

            “What’s for breakfast, Captain?” Douglas asked suddenly. “I find myself in unexpectedly dire need of sustenance.”

            Martin’s face fell into resignation as he stood and crossed over to the counters. “I can do you…” he said, rifling through the cupboards above – “weak tea with a re-used bag, coffee with no chance of milk; stale bread, since the toaster’s broken; with…” He opened the fridge and leaned over it. “Butter. And possibly jam, but I’m not actually sure I remember buying that, so it might have been here for a while…”

            “Well, aren’t you a veritable marketplace,” mumbled Douglas, then heaved himself upright. “Come on,” he announced – “I’m taking you out for breakfast. After I have a shower, and possibly throw up.”

            “Oh, um – r-really?” stammered Martin, taken aback. “That’s – not necessary, I mean –”

            “Martin, you let me into your home and gave me your bed for the night,” said Douglas, swaying a little on his feet and steadying himself against the wall.

            “To be perfectly honest, I wasn’t exactly given much choice with those.”

            “Well then, I have to repay you for taking advantage,” Douglas shot back. “Also, incidentally, for the alka-seltzer, the comfort, and the  _small_ matter of the verbal and physical abuse.” He levelled Martin with his best (albeit hungover) patronising glare, and the matter was settled.

            “Fine,” Martin sighed. “But keep in mind, you’re missing out on a world of fun trying to get my kettle working.”

            “An experience I’m certain I shall sorely miss.”

            “Oh, and I’m out of shampoo.”

            Douglas rolled his eyes on his way to the tiny bathroom. “And  _after_ breakfast,” he called over his shoulder, “I’m taking you grocery shopping, as payment for the missed delivery job this morning. Can’t have our gallant Captain starving to death in his own home.”

            It was only once the bathroom door had closed behind Douglas that Martin let his tight-lipped smile bloom into a full, ear-to-ear grin.


End file.
